the lower planes.
The pillars of light vanished all at once, and with them each of the demons, devils, yugoloths, and fiends who had marched with the daemonfey army. Seiveril sensed the abrupt banishment of the monsters from Faerun as a wave of icy severance that rippled across the battlefield and back again. He blinked the afterimage of the brilliant spears from his eyes, astonished.
'Seiveril! What just happened?' Fflar demanded.
The moon elf shielded his eyes with his left forearm, holding Keryvian in his right. Despite all the blood the ancient baneblade had spilled that evening, its steel was still pure and unsullied. The holy fire of the sword burned it clean of demon blood.
'The demons were unsummoned,' Seiveril answered. 'They're banished. Whatever was holding them here has failed.'
'Will they return?' Fflar turned, sweeping his eyes over the battlefield on all sides. 'Are they truly banished, Seiveril?'
'I believe they are,' Seiveril replied.
He had sufficient skill in summoning spells to recognize the end of one when he saw it. He surveyed the battlefield, looking for any sign of the fiends. Everywhere he looked, the remaining warriors of both sides still stood amazed.
The left flank, where the Knights of the Golden Star and Seiveril's bladesingers and spellsingers had battled against hundreds of the daemonfeys' demon allies, was virtually denuded of enemies. In a single stroke Seiveril's best warriors had been left in complete command of their corner of the moorland with no more enemies surrounding them or keeping them from going to the aid of the hard-pressed center and right.
The battered battle-platform began drifting back toward the fey'ri legion that stood behind Seiveril's force, awkwardly climbing over the jumbled remnants of the huge elemental Seiveril had sent to attack it. From somewhere far away came the single, solitary ring of steel meeting steel, and the battle began to resume, as more and more warriors turned back to their foes and redoubled their efforts to overcome each other.
'The sorcerers in that damned floating fortress are retreating,' Seiveril observed.
'That is a good sign,' Fflar grinned. 'I think I like these odds a little better. So what now?'
'Reform the knights. We'll swing back toward the south and turn east to take the damned fey'ri in the flank. If we can defeat them, the orcs and ogres will break.'
Seiveril glanced up into the dark skies overhead. Stars were beginning to appear through the violet wisps of the day's overcast, illuminated by the last faint rays of the sunset far to the west. The clouds were breaking up. It would be a clear and starry night.
'I don't know what became of the demons,' Seiveril said, 'but the Seldarine are smiling on us tonight.'
The western skies still glowed with the fading gold of sunset over Evermeet. Amlaruil strolled along a balcony of the palace, looking down over the dark streets of Leuthilspar as one by one the warm lanterns of the elven city began to wake beneath the stars. The night was cool and the sea-breezes growing stronger. She listened to the voice of the waves and the wind, even as her handmaidens laughed and chattered behind her.
Zaltarish walked at her side, a thin staff in his hand.
'You must give Lady Durothil an answer of some kind soon,' he said. 'If nothing else, she will insist on a date by which you will reach your decision concerning the council.'
'I meant what I said,' Amlaruil began. 'Filling the council is my prerogative, not hers, and I will do so in the time and manner that-'
Her eyes opened wider, and she drew in a small gasp. There was something in the Weave, subtle, a distant vibration as if a great, deep harp string had been touched a great distance away. Her step faltered and she gripped the balustrade, turning to peer east over the dark sea.
'What is it, my queen?' Zaltarish asked softly.
'High magic in Faerun,' the queen said. 'Not a true spell of high magic, only the… touching of one. It resonates in the Weave.'
The scribe followed her eyes toward distant Faerun and asked, 'What does it signify?'
Amlaruil gazed into the night for a long time, then lifted up her face, smiling at the stars.
'I am not certain, old friend, but I think a mighty blow has been struck against our enemies. Sunrise will find new things in Faerun.'
The damaged Vyshaanti battle-platform hovered high over the battlefield of the Lonely Moor, its deck canted slightly to one side. Sarya didn't know if the device could be repaired or not, but she was unwilling to abandon it, even with its crumpled and scorched armor plates. But sooner or later the platform would certainly draw another attack from the elf spellcasters below, and it was only a tool, after all. Broken tools were to be discarded, and that was that.
The savage warriors who had fought and died as the fodder for her army were rapidly reaching the status of broken tools as well. Untold numbers of orcs, ogres, and such had fallen in the futile attempt to overwhelm the deadly steel core of Evermeet's army. They'd done well enough while the elves were beset by hundreds of demons and flanked by her fey'ri, but the demons she'd seeded among their ragged ranks had served to drive the tribal warriors onward with suitable zeal. With the demons gone, the orcs and their kin didn't seem so eager to try their chances against elven arrows and battle magic.
'The battle is lost, my lady,' Mardeiym Reithel said. He bowed and continued, 'We must withdraw the fey'ri before our losses grow any worse.'
'I know,' Sarya snarled.
She was tempted to punish the fey'ri for his temerity, but she held her hand. Mardeiym was competent and respectful, and it was certainly not his fault that he'd lost a quarter of the army-the fiercest and most powerful quarter, really-in one terrible moment. She had to get back to Myth Glaurach right away to see what had happened to the mythal stone. Had it finally decayed past the point of usefulness? Or had one of her underlings attempted something rash? Was Nurthel capable of such a brazen act of defiance?
'Signal the legion to disengage at once,' she commanded. 'Leave the orcs and the rest to the mercy of the elves. They shall serve to cover our retreat.'
Mardeiym called to the messenger fey'ri who waited on his orders. 'Sound the retreat!' he said. 'We'll retire by air.'
The messengers sounded their brazen trumpets, and from the melee of flashing swords and crackling spells below, the fey'ri began to rise, taking to the air. Better than a thousand of Sarya's demonblooded warriors had started the battle at sunset, but she guessed that a third of her fey'ri would not return to the halls of Myth Glaurach. Demons could be summoned again. orc tribes could be enticed with promises of loot and easy victory. But her fey'ri were indispensable.
'What will we do now, my lady?' Mardeiym asked quietly.
Sarya clenched her fists on the iron rail of the platform until the strength in her fingers left marks in the armor plate.
'Preserve the fey'ri,' she answered. 'Fall back and regroup to fight another day. You will gather the fey'ri and lead them back to our city at your best speed, but do not abandon the wounded if you can help it.'
'Where will you be, my lady?'
'I must return to Myth Glaurach immediately to see what has happened there. Now go.'
'Yes, Lady Sarya,' the fey'ri warmaster replied.
He struck his fist to his breastplate in salute, and took to the air to join the fey'ri flying away from the battle.
Sarya spared the elf soldiers beneath her one hateful hiss, then she teleported herself away from the battle-platform. It was rash of her, but she chose to send herself directly to the mythal stone in its deep well of living rock. She needed to know what had happened to the spells with which she had anchored her demons to the physical world.
She appeared in a gout of sudden flame, her spell shields crackling into life, her staff held in guard as she readied herself to strike. But no enemies awaited her.
'What is this?' she snarled into the cold air.
There was no reply.
Angrily, she stalked over to the great rosy stone and set her hand on it, commanding it to reveal what had
